


To Taste His Dawn

by draculasdaughter, gabrielledarling



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enjoltaire - Relationship, LawStudent!Enjolras, M/M, Rating subject to change, SexyMusician!Grantaire, Slow Burn, college students, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, rock music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculasdaughter/pseuds/draculasdaughter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielledarling/pseuds/gabrielledarling
Summary: *unfinished and indefinitely on pause*It's 1969. Enjolras is studying law at the University of Minnesota; Grantaire, known on the stage as ‘R,’ is a rock guitarist. The war in Vietnam rages, and though each student has dodged the draft, each has imprisoned himself in other ways. When they meet at a snowy bus stop, it's the beginning of an escape neither of them could have fathomed.





	1. I Know Your Type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two men meet at a bus stop; later, at a rock concert.

Enjolras shivers against the shelter, arms crossed over his heavy wool coat. The stop is deserted; it's half-past one in the morning, and Enjolras had been in the campus library until it closed. His head is aching and his eyes were begging for sleep, but he isn't even half-finished with the twenty-page paper that he'd started that set out to write that evening. He'd have to spend the rest of the night keeled over his typewriter in his apartment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras notices a flash of light. There's a man, standing just ten or twelve feet away from him. He hadn't noticed in the thickness of the snow. Now, Enjolras could see a semicircle of the man's face, illuminated by the cigarette between red lips. There's a fleeting impression of uneven stubble, pale skin, a flash of teeth.

"Hey," the smoker said, low and gravelly. Enjolras almost jumped; after hours of staring at a textbook in a trance, he'd become unaware of his own, unwavering gaze. He nodded, hoping the man would leave the conversation there.

Unfortunately, Enjolras watches the smoker approach him in his peripheral vision. He's apprehensive, despite himself: Enjolras can see that the man's harmless, at least a head shorter than him, and skinny. Still—it's the middle of the night, and Enjolras is alone.

"Hiya," the guy repeats. He's not wearing a hat, and his dark, wild curls spill over his ears. He leans, like Enjolras, against the bus station's lean-to and puffs on his cigarette. "Real cold out here, eh?"

"Yeah," Enjolras exhales.

"You like music?"

"What?"

The guy closes his lips over the cigarette in his mouth, holding it steady, and reaches into the inside of his coat. Enjolras stiffens, and then relaxes as curly-haired guy reveals a skinny sheet of paper. It's a sloppy, hand drawn, Xeroxed flyer  advertising an upcoming performance by a band called 'The Twin Shitties.'

Enjolras doesn’t have the presence of mind to laugh.

"My band," the guy says, and Enjolras really looks at him for the first time. Beyond the wild curls, he has fair skin, a prominent nose, and piercing green eyes. "We've got a gig comin' up. He taps the flyer in Enjolras' hand with a half-gloved pointer finger. "At The Depot. You should come."

Enjolras thinks he's misheard. "Um. Me?"

The guy grins, bright teeth flashing. In the dark, he reminds Enjolras of a cat. "Yeah. Take a break from your studying, baby lawyer."

Enjolras is stunned. "How d'you know?"

He waves a hand. "Y'all law guys have a look."

"What d'you mean?"

Grinning wider, he says, "You shouldn't take what I say so seriously, man. I'm just dickin' around."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say. He's tired, cold, and strung-out. And so, instead of employing the polite kindness he usually reserves for strangers, he does entirely un-Enjolras-like. He says, "Look. I'm sorry. I've been studying all night, and I'm in the middle of finals, and my cat's sick, and I just can't deal with the small talk shit right now. Okay?"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. He's just been rude and overshared to the point of embarrassment. Even worse, the man's face has dropped slightly, just enough to let Enjolras know, even in his sleep-deprived state, that this guy isn't as devil-may-care as his leather jacket suggests.

Just as quickly, the man's face shifts back to impassive. "'Kay, blondie. No small talk it is."

Awkwardly, Enjolras tries to hand the flyer back, but the guy waves a hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras spots the blinding light of the bus' headlights and digs change out of his pocket. The bus stops and the doors creak open, a gust of warmth blossoming into the air. Enjolras glances back at the curly-haired man, still leaning against the shelter. A swirl of guilt rises in his chest.

"You're not getting on?"

"Catching the next one," the guy says, and gives him a mock salute. "'Bye, blondie."

Enjolras hands over his coin and boards the bus. When he collapses into his seat, his eyes close, and he forgets, if temporarily, everything that has just happened.

~

Enjolras wakes, in the middle of the night, exactly a week later. He's just taken his last final, turned in his final paper, and suddenly, the memory of the verbal assault he'd launched against that curly-haired guy at the bus station in his sleep-deprived, strung-out state flared in his gut, mixing with the lingering, celebratory alcohol in his veins.

Enjolras rolls over in bed, curly blonde locks falling over his face, pulling on the metal-beaded string to light the lamp atop his bedside table, and opens the top drawer. Rifling blindly, he pulls out the Xeroxed pamphlet and checks the date and time.

He hasn't missed it.

Enjolras rolls onto his back, staring at the popcorn ceiling of his apartment.

The Depot isn't exactly his scene. He prefers jazz to rock; quiet bars to crowded venues. Under regular circumstances, there would be no reason for him to attend an event like The Twin Shitties' concert.

Now, under the cover of darkness, he snorts to himself.

Enjolras rolls over again, turning off the lamp and setting the crinkled pamphlet on his bedside table. His dismissal of the man at the bus stop rings in his ears, suddenly clear as day. _I'm sorry. I've been studying all night, and I'm in the middle of finals, and my cat's sick, and I just can't deal with the small talk shit right now..._

How rude. How embarrassing. He'd been an ass, and now he's been given a chance to apologize.

He knows what he has to do.

~

Though he'd been worried he wouldn’t find it, Enjolras had no doubt in his mind that the dingy, glowing building is The Depot. Smokers huddle around the front door, muttering excitedly, swearing about the cold. He apologizes his way through the groupies and into the smoky venue.

Just as he'd anticipated, he feels out of place, hyper-conscious of the collared shirt and cardigan he's wearing under his coat. He tugs his lapels closed and manages weave through the crowd toward the stage. Instinctively, he fishes a tiny legal pad and pen out of his pocket.

He’s barely written the name of the venue down when he hears a high pitched, crackling laugh beside him. “Wha'cha got there?”

Enjolras starts, blushes, and glances to his right—and then down, at short woman with a bird's nest of snarly brown hair atop her head. She was probobably around twenty years old.

She quirks a heavy eyebrow. “Pen and paper's a funny thing to bring to a show."

Red-faced, Enjolras slips the items to his coat pocket. She cocks a hip, mocking. “You’re clearly a groupie."

This is exactly why Enjolras didn't want to come to this thing in the first place. Holding back his impulse to run, he says, by way of explanation, “Pre-law, actually.”

Her eyebrows, thick as caterpillars, rise unbidden. "Yeah?"

“Yeah. I'm a junior at the University of Minn—”

But she's not listening. Instead, she’s giggling to herself. “College kids. I've never understood 'em. Killing themselves over words and equations instead of living in the real world.”

Enjolras is stunned into silence. 

The woman glances up at him, catching his eyes, and sighs. “Guess it’s better than going to ‘nam.”

Enjolras frowns. “That’s not why I’m in school. I'm not dodging.”

“You keep on telling yourself that, honey," she says, nodding as if in league with Enjolras—like they share some kind of secret. “So. You don't like rock. Why are you here?”

Enjolras gestures to the stage. “There’s a guy in the band that I, uh—really need to talk to.”

The woman whistles. “Oh-hooo! Lucky you!"

He flushes and stammers, unwilling to acknowledge her unspoken allegation. "No, I—I mean…"

But Enjolras doesn’t get to finish that thought, because the first member of the band walks onto the stage, and a smattering of cheers and hollers fills air pockets in the crowd around him.

The drummer, waving sticks in the air, sits behind the drum set. He’s got a blonde mop-top that hangs over his eyes. The bassist enters next, dragging his feet, like he was jostled awake by the offensive enthusiasm of the drummer with a massive hangover. He’s followed by a blazer-wearing guitarist. _How many members were there?_ Enjolras wondered.

And then, as if in answer, the man he's been waiting for appears. Though Enjolras recognizes his wild hair and face from the bus stop, it's as if the air around him has changed. Gone is the shivering, desperate-for-a-smoke stranger; in his place, a long-limbed, graceful presence with an easy grin.

There's something different about him, and Enjolras isn't not the only one who feels it. As soon as curly-haired man appears, all around Enjolras, the crowd comes to life. The short woman next to him screams fiercely, sticking her fist in the air. "Fuck, yeah!"

Curly-haired guy is holding a pink guitar over his midsection, a strap slung over his shoulder. He sticks his tongue out at his fans, playfully obscene, and grins, holding his arms up and letting his guitar hang from the strap around his shoulder. “How the fuck are y’all doing?”

Screams. Cheers. Enjolras fought the urge to cover his ears, feeling to all the world like the world's biggest baby. He can't imagine the expression of the woman next to him if she caught him covering his ears.

Curly-haired guy plugs his guitar into the amp with jarring feedback from the sound system, but the crowd doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they cheer louder.

“Alright! We’re The Twin Shitties! This is my man Hank on the drums, Carl on the bass and James on rhythm. Give these fellas some love!" Curly-haired guy moves away, and then ducks back toward the microphone. "And this is a babe-free stage, so come say hey after the show.”

Hoarse screams echo through the venue.

The drummer stands and aggressively beats the drumsticks together, growling, “One-two-three-four!”

And then the band, all at once, begins to play. It’s not music, Enjolras decides, after thirty seconds. It’s noise. It's exactly what he expected, and the thought reassures him. 

Despite his serious lack of enjoyment, Enjolras can't take his eyes off curly-haired guy. His hair falls in his face and his hands move quickly along the frets with the ease of a professional. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he tosses his head back and kicks a microphone stand up from the stage.

 _Oh, dear God,_ Enjolras thinks, as he realizes the song hasn't even started yet. 

The lead singer—curly-haired guy—puts his lips directly on the mic and begins to half-scream, half-sing. “I’m such a fool for Uncle Sam, he keeps me buskin’ like a tramp. He gives me atom bombs for favors, I eat my greens but hate the flavor, fuck!”

Enjolras' sense of identity revolves around honesty. With himself, with others, with the world. He's not going to pretend to enjoy what he's hearing—and still, there’s something about the raw, lyrical anger that appeals to him. It’s like riot chants, ones he's seen on television. The energy of the band, the crowd, of the lead singer, stirs the blood in his veins.

Something knocks hard against his shoulder. It’s the short girl, he realizes. The people around him have started jumping along with the music. Not wanting to appear a complete buffoon, he bobs his head a little. It feels forced and awkward.

And then he glances back at the stage, just in time to see curly-haired guy yell and then lick the microphone like an ice-cream cone.

A strange and thoroughly unwelcome sensation jolts deep in Enjolras' stomach, but he can't look away as curly-haired guy falls to his knees in front of the microphone stand, clutching his guitar to his midsection like a life-saving raft, and just plays. His band just stands there, comfortably watching.

Curly-haired guy lays back on the stage and thrusts his hips into the air—Enjolras' abdomen twists again—as his guitar solo ends. The crowd around Enjolras screams, but he averts his eyes, feeling intrusive.

The other guitarist, whose name Enjolras has forgotten, kicks the microphone stand up in a move similar to his bandmate's—though not as graceful—and sings the next verse.

Curly-haired guy lays there for a moment, then stands and returns his lips to the microphone for a breathy chorus.

The rest of the show is equally deafening, disturbing, and bizarre. By the time the band has finished their third encore, his ears feel numb, and the air around him seems to buzz as the lights flicker on.

The band has left the stage. For a long moment, Enjolras stares at the places they’ve vacated. Then he turns, determined to find curly-haired guy, smooth this over and then leave.

Easier said than done, Enjolras realizes after five minutes of waiting. The band don’t come out to the main club, like he'd expected. They’re probably backstage. Why would they come to the main club?

Enjolras feels supremely stupid. He wanders around the venue until he finds the backstage entrance. The room is packed, and mostly with girls. He wonders if the short woman’s among them—there are so many shining faces, he can't tell one from another.

He squeezes past throngs of fans and tries to use his height to his advantage. Eventually, he finds curly-haired guy. He's sitting on a floor-cushion, smoking, and surrounded by fans. Strangely, they aren’t all talking to him. In fact, it seems like he’s just floating in his own haze of smoke among a sea of people, a king amongst subjects.

Enjolras doesn’t know what he was expecting. Would the man even recognize him? Would he think him naive, over-sensitive, for feeling like he had to apologize to some stranger? Spend his whole night at some concert, listening to music he didn’t even enjoy?

It's too late. Curly-haired guy looks up, eyes hooded, and focuses on Enjolras' face. It’s clear he recognizes him, but what’s that expression? Recognition? Contempt? Confusion?

Enjolras, naturally, panics. He acts on his first instinct, which is unfortunately to smile and wave.

Curly-haired guy’s face smoothes. He holds up his non-cigarette hand and crooks a finger, motioning Enjolras over.

As Enjolras moves toward him, he lifts the stubby cigarette to his lips, raising his eyebrows. “Blondie," he says, appraising and exhaling a stream of smoke. "Like the cardigan.”

Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest, blushing as he remembers. He’d unbuttoned his coat a couple of songs in, as the venue had drastically increased in temperature.

With a stroke of inspiration, Enjolras opens his coat to display his shirt-front. “Yeah. I knew it’d be a hit.”

Curly-haired guy starts, as if blown over the force of Enjolras' weak joke. Like he hadn't been expecting anything of the sort to come out of the law student's mouth.

Enjolras remembers, again, that when he'd met the man, he was in the midst of finals: moody, tired, cold, and hungry. Why should he think Enjolras was anything other than a complete asshole?

Curly-haired guy put a finger to his stubble-coated chin, as if deep in contemplation, and smirks. “Lemme guess. You’re coming to tell me that you’ve been converted to the rock n’ roll lifestyle and you’re gonna quit law school?”

“No. But, um.” Enjolras glances around the noisy dressing room, “Can we talk?”

Looking surprised once again, curly-haired guy nods and stands. He flicks his cigarette expertly into an ashtray and crushes it against the side.

A high-pitched whine pierces the tiny dressing room. “Oh, R...you're leaving?"

Enjolras wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly. Had the groupie called curly-haired guy 'R'?

The man leaned over, leisurely dropping a kiss on the cheek of the redheaded offender. “Nah, I’ll be back.” He rose, beckoning for Enjolras to follow him.

The man leads Enjolras through a maze of fan-flooded back hallways until they reached a corner where he can hear himself think. It’s dark and hazy with smoke, but quiet.

“R?” He begins, raising an eyebrow. "Like, the letter 'R'?"

“People call me a lot of things. That's one of them.” A smile heavy with connotation that Enjolras doesn’t understand plays at his lips. “What do I call you, blondie? Unless you'd rather I stuck with that."

Enjolras clears his throat. "Enjolras. It's not important. Look, I came to apologize about the other day. I was an ass.”

Curly-haired guy just gives him a half-smile, half-smirk. “But you came.”

"I—yeah. To apologize," Enjolras says.

R just nods. "What did you think?"

"Of what?"

"The show," he says.

Enjolras stands still. "Does it matter?"

R shrugged. “Yeah. I’m curious. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder. Did we shake it off?”

Enjolras frowns. "I just...I only came to say I'm sorry. I'm not usually like that—it was finals, and I—"

"And your cat was sick."

Enjolras stares.

R stares back. "Is she better? Or he?"

"Yeah," Enjolras says. "She's fine. Look, I only came to—"

"Apologize," R says, whistling through a stream of smoke. "Yeah, I heard you. Wishing you hadn't come at all, aren't you?"

Enjolras frowns.

"I know your type," R says.

"And what's my type?"

R doesn't even look angry. He looks calm, easily comfortable. "You know. Sheltered. Scared. Prefers watching to participating."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

R smiles wanly. "Hey, relax. Nothing wrong with it. Unless it bothers you."

“I participate.” Enjolras says. “I mean, I came to this. I stood for—what, two hours?”

"You watched," R says, pointing a finger at him. "You bobbed your head a little. That's my point."

Enjolras' stomach flips. Curly-haired guy had seen him in the crowd. He'd recognized him even before he’d braved through the mob of fans backstage. For some strange, unknown reason, this knowledge makes him squirm.

“How did you see me while you were singing? You were…well, your eyes weren’t even open half the time.”

R is calm. Once again, his presence is completely different. He's not the shivering musician at the bus stop, or even the friendly, obscene maniac of the stage. “You’re right. Happens when you’re doing something you love.”

Enjolras is silent. What is wrong with him? He's studying law. He's excellent at debate—his childhood bedroom housed nine trophies to prove it.

And yet, in front of this guy, his composure shatters.

He clears his throat, shakes his head, and holds his coat closed. “I’m sorry to bother you. How do you—? Uh,” he stutters, looking over his shoulder at the maze they’d just come through.

R moves away from the wall he'd been leaning against. “I’ll walk you out if you really want to leave.”

Of course Enjolras wants to leave. He wants to go back to his blessedly empty, divinely quiet apartment and forget about the entire evening. He nods.

"C'mon," R says, and leads him back where they came, taking an abrupt turn halfway down the hallway and down a set of stairs. He pushes another door open, labeled EXIT, and the cold air whistles in. "Stage door.”

Enjolras stills. He's supposed to leave. To step out the door and never set foot in The Depot again, and yet, somehow, he can't force himself to take a step.

Seeing Enjolras' hesitation, curly-haired guy digs in his pocket. “Where—shit," he says, looking up. "Do you have a paper? A receipt? Something?"

Enjolras, almost against his will, pulls his notepad and pen from his pocket. R looks surprised, like he didn't expect Enjolras to have exactly what he'd asked for.

Using the wall as a flat surface, he writes something and then holds it out to Enjolras. “Alright. Here’s my telephone number. If you want to—I don’t know—figure out what the hell it was you saw up there or learn to play a couple chords, or—well, fuck." R runs a hand through his hair. It's the first time Enjolras has seen him flustered. Finally, he spits, "If you need anything—ever—call me.”

Enjolras takes his notepad back, brushing R's fingers, hard with callouses. He doesn't know what to say, so he carefully tucks it into his pocket. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Unsure of what to say or do, they stare at each other for a moment. Then, Enjolras tucks his hands in his pockets and braces himself against the wind.


	2. The Night is Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little adventure, culminating in disappointment.

“No Segram's? Combeferre, I'm hurt,” Courfeyrac complains, clutching his chest with the drama of the entire Royal Shakespeare Company. He pushes himself off Enjolras’ lap and into the arms of a dancing Joly.

Combeferre shrugs. "Couldn't get your favorite, Courf, sorry. You'll have to do with a gin and soda."

But Courfeyrac isn't listening; instead, he's being spun by Joly to the raucous jazz. Feuilly had brought four of his best records, and he, Joly, Marius, and now Courfeyrac are trying to teach a slightly-tipsy Jehan how to dance.

“Stand up straighter, Jehan! I expect all of you to know how to dance at my wedding,” Marius announces, breaking away from the group.

Combeferre laughs from his seat beside the old piano. “Oh, yeah? When will that be?”

"Hey," Marius protests. "Might be sooner than you think."

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Mary," Joly adds, using the nickname that makes Marius scowl. "You gotta find the girl first!"

Jehan, spinning aimlessly in a corner of the room, trips suddenly and is sent sprawling into Enjolras' lap. Like Enjolras' own cat, Jehan sets his head contentedly in his lap—something he’d only have the bravery to do drunk.

“Don't doubt me, men. I've recently found a candidate," Marius declares, freckled face coloring slightly.

Courfeyrac sighs. "Oh, Jesus. Here we go."

"It's not like that! I've actually got a chance with this one!" Marius protests.

Combeferre laughs good-naturedly. "Oh, Mary. Let me guess: you're actually going to talk to this one?"

Marius crosses his arms like an insolent child. "Yes!"

“Wedding bells,” Joly shouts, mocking. “I can hear 'em!”

“What’s her name, then?” Combeferre asks as Joly performs a drunken turn and a dramatic smoulder in the lovesick man’s direction.

“Cosette,” Marius says. He resumes his dancing, alone, closing his eyes, and Combeferre laughs heartily.

Enjolras looks around the room at his friends. They were all celebrating a great victory; each of them had finished the semester with excellent grades.

Enjolras wanted to be celebrating, too, but he held tight to the knowledge that prevented him from doing so—the knowledge that was burning a hole of guilt in his stomach. He'd failed his Chemistry course, and it was killing him.

Enjolras wasn't the type to fail. In fact, he was always the pass-with-flying-colors type, and he prided himself on it. His friends had compared their scores at the beginning of the evening; Enjolras had excused himself, claiming a need to use the bathroom.

It had been a difficult semester. The most difficult of his life, in truth, and not, as one would expect, because of the overwhelming load of courses he'd chosen to take: His parents were fighting again. In the years since he'd moved into his own apartment, his parents' relationship had grown strained and hostile, but the Catholic faith in which they—and he—had been raised prevented even the discussion of divorce.

  
Enjolras had spent countless hours worrying about his parents. His father was a drinker, and could be verbally abusive even while sober. He'd never raised a hand against Enjolras' mother, but Enjolras knew it wasn't for lack of hostility; when he was home, which wasn't often, his father railed against his mother tiredly, with caustic, sarcastic remarks.

Enjolras wanted to forget. He wanted to get wildly drunk with his friends, but he knew that in their presence, inebriated, he'd divulge all of his problems. And then, of course, his friends would try to help, and Enjolras couldn't stomach that.

“I’m gonna get some air,” Enjolras says suddenly.

“What?” Jehan asks, looking up into Enjolras' eyes. "I can move, if you want!"

“No, it's okay. I just need a little air,” Enjolras repeats, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Jehan nods and sits up. Enjolras stands, grabbing his coat. In their drunken celebrations, the rest of his friends don't notice him walking out to the porch of the house his friends shared.

He doesn't know why he hadn’t signed the lease with them. At the time, he'd claimed personal space, but he wasn't sure if that was the truth. He wondered if they knew he wasn't always animated, funny, and inspired, they wouldn't want to spend time with him.

Enjolras shook his head. Stupid. Of course they'd still want to spend time with him.

Probably.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. He’d forgotten his gloves entirely. He breathes into his fingers, rubbing them together. Though it’s cold here, and warm inside, he doesn’t want to go back. He finds that he’s walking towards the neighborhood's small city center. It’s not much. There’s a gas station and a tiny comic book shop, probably closed. There’s a familiar bus stop too, and a phone booth.

_"If you need anything—ever—call me."_

R's words come back to him, unbidden.

The number was still in his coat pocket. He could picture R's face—it came back to him at the worst of times—grinning, eyebrows lifted. If Enjolras told him about his grades, he'd probably say something like, “Why the fuck do you _care_ , blondie?”

A tiny smile lifts the corners of Enjolras' lips.

Digging change out of his jeans, he approaches the phone booth and fishes the number from his pocket.

R, says the note. Beneath it, a telephone number. It's hard to decipher the figures—true to form, the guy's handwriting is atrocious.

Enjolras fingers rest on the telephone. He can't believe he's doing it.

He does it.

The phone rings one, twice, three, four times. It’s late; R probably isn’t even home. Maybe he’s playing another gig, or drinking with friends (like Enjolras was supposed to be doing, he thinks guiltily). Just when Enjolras is considering hanging up out of pure nerves, the ringing stops.

“Hiya."

Enjolras hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Um. Hi.”

“Who’s this?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s Enjolras.”

Confused pause. “Who?”

Enjolras sighs into the receiver. He can’t believe he’s doing this. “Blondie.”

He can almost hear the grin on the line’s other end. “‘Ey, blondie! Now, why would you be calling a miscreant like me on a Friday night? Miss me?”

Enjolras doesn't give him the satisfaction of an answer to his last question. “I just, uh, wondered. If there was anything going on tonight, you know, in…your world?”

Without missing a beat, R says, “Always. I have a friend doing a gig at The Alps. Interested?”

Honestly, Enjolras doesn't know if he is. Interested, that is. But he'd sound like an idiot if he said no. Worse—he'd sound like an ass. Again.

“Uh, sure. Where is that?”

R gives him the address and about just thirty minutes later—roughly two times longer than it should have been if he had known the bus routes—he arrives at another club: the Alps.

As he steps inside, Enjolras hopes he hasn’t arrived for another deafening two hours of screaming fans. Based solely on the architecture, he doesn't think so. The venue is almost a tavern, with low ceilings and wood panels on the walls. There’s a small stage in the back corner where a few people are setting up their instruments.

“Blondie!"

Enjolras' stomach jumps into his throat. R, his curly black hair impossibly wilder than the last time Enjolras saw him, is sitting at the bar. He lifts a thick glass in the air, toasting to some unknown good fortune with a silly grin.

 _Be a man,_ Enjolras chides himself. R is just a guy—no different from him, from Joly, from Courfeyrac or Combeferre. There should be nothing intimidating about him.

Enjolras crosses the room.

“Alrighty, Angela," R says, setting his glass on the bar and rubbing his hands together with excitement. "Lemme see the cardigan.”

Enjolras sputters. "Angela?"

"That's your name, right?"

Enjolras chooses to ignore this. Instead, he unbuttons his wool coat and pulls it open with drama, revealing a simple, white button-up. The top two buttons are even undone.

R's jaw drops. “Look at that! Whose closet did you raid?" R nudges the button-line of Enj's shirt with his finger. "Where’s the cashmere, blondie?”

Enjolras closes his coat, butterflies filling his stomach. “I don’t wear cashmere."

“I’m just messing with ya.”

Enjolras didn't answer. He’d spent the entire bus ride wondering if it was a bad idea to even think of going. By now, his friends were probably wondering where he was. They’d be worried. His gaze drops to the linoleum floor and his hands resume their place in his pockets.

“Thought you wouldn’t show," R says, and for the first time, he looks almost unguarded.

"So did I," Enjolras admits, matching R's honesty. It was the easiest thing he'd said to R in the fortnight since they'd met, and it was refreshing to let the truth slip from his mouth.

To Enjolras' shock, R drops a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras looks up, meeting blue eyes. “Blondie,” R says, “I'm glad you did. Show, I mean.”

Then R squeezes his shoulder and smiles a crooked smile. “Let me buy you a drink, eh?"

Abrupt, unwelcome nerves writhing in his stomach, Enjolras pulls out from underneath R's suddenly-heavy hand. "Sure. I mean, yeah. Alright."

"Whaddaya want?"

"Er...a rum and coke?" Enjolras suggests.

R quirks an eyebrow. "Ya sure?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure."

R holds up a hand. "S'cuse me, could we get a rum and coke over here, please?"

At the other end of the vast, dim room, the band begins to play. It's not as raucous or wild as _The Twin Shitties_ , but, Enjolras thinks, it belongs in the same genre. It stirs the same feelings of frustration, resentment, and anger, alongside hope, freedom, a hunger for justice.

Suddenly, Enjolras realizes R is speaking to him. "WHAT?" Enjolras shouts over the music.

R laughs, a wide, dimpled laugh, and shouts, "HOW'S THE DRINK?"

"GOOD. GREAT," Enjolras yells back.

After several minutes of shouted banter, Enjolras finds himself relaxing. He has a rum and coke, and then another, and then another. Gradually, his careful chuckle becomes a carefree laugh. He’s not quite sure if R is truly as funny as he seems or he’s just lost to the alcohol in his veins.

As R tells a story about his bassist, possibly named Carl (Enjolras can barely manage a halfway-decent short-term memory after his third rum-and-coke), his eyes wander down to R’s hands, playing with a shot glass. R's pointer finger circles the rim of the cup mindlessly. The tips of his fingers are calloused—probably from the guitar, Enjolras realizes with a heady jolt. Can he still feel things on the tips of his fingers? Enjolras wonders. Does he even know what the glass feels like, slowly shined beneath hard fingertips?

“Blondie?”

Enjolras looks up. His nose is three inches away from R’s.

R looks at him, concerned. Was he concerned, or just confused? Was R's concern too much to hope for?

Enjolras' mind grinds to a halt as he becomes conscious of that last thought. What is he _thinking_?

R snaps his fingers in from of Enjolras' face. “You good, buddy?”

Enjolras swallows, gesturing to the band. “I just spaced out. It’s…well, loud."

Stupid, his brain supplies. Moronic, actually. Pure, unadulterated stupidity.

R doesn't seem to grasp the idiocy of his drinking-partner. “Aw, yeah,” he says, leaning away (to Enjolras' befuddled dismay), “forgot you’re a rock n’ roll newbie.”

With a tipsy flourish, R downs his final drink and gestures to the door through which Enjolras had entered—three whole hours earlier. “You wanna head out?”

Taking Enjolras' drunken silence as a yes, R slides off his own barstool and Enjolras follows him out the door.

~

With fiery alcohol in Enjolras' veins, the cold isn't too bad. R finds a bench outside the venue, and he sits. Enjolras, once again hesitant, cautiously sits beside him. Even outside, they can hear the drums pounding.

“I’m gonna be honest,” Enjolras begins, remembering the rush of comfort he'd felt at his last admission. “I've heard better music.”

R lights a cigarette, slouching against the bench “You’re right.”

Enjolras is taken off-guard. "What?"

“You’re right, man. There’s better music.” R stows the lighter in his pocket. “But ya know, I gotta support my friends.”

Enjolras tries to wrap his foggy head around R’s words. “But isn’t this…your scene?”

R chuckles, then sobers. "Sometimes. I work at the radio station, too, and I'm a student, so I have a lot of—” R puts the cigarette between his lips and then speaks around it as he does air quotes, “—scenes.”

“Radio?”

“Yeah, radio. Air waves. It's a...thing? Invented sometime around the twenties or somethin', I dunno—”

Enjolras smacks R’s arm, laughing despite himself. “I fucking know what radio is.”

R looks at Enjolras, thick eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

"Of course I do!"

Enjolras catches R rubbing his arm where he'd smacked him, and he's suddenly embarrassed. He looks down at the snow and kicks at a clump with his toe. “I didn’t know you did...um, that. How do you get started with that sort of thing?”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal. It’s just the U's station, Radio K.”

Where had Enjolras been? He didn’t even know his own school had a radio station. “Can you play whatever you want?"

“Nah,” R says, a frown playing at his lips. “They have these stupid rules about themes and swearing that we have to follow. It’s bullshit.”

“That’s bullshit,” Enjolras repeats quietly. Then, suddenly, he feels a fire in his chest. "God. That's completely unfair."

R raises an eyebrow, like, _obviously_. "Yeah. Bullshit."

"You should be able to play whatever you like!"

R looks taken aback. Then he grins, his cigarette between his teeth. “You’re right. But what can I do about it? I'm just a lowly student-DJ."

Enjolras stands in the snow, facing the night's emptiness, and proclaims, “Just...fuckin’...play your music. Just do what you want. Now.”

He glances behind him. R's sitting on the bench, arms stretched out in a relaxed T-pose, cigarette between two fingers. He's illuminated by moonlight as he raises a dark eyebrow. “It’s midnight, blondie.”

Enjolras feels like he's on a different kind of high—the kind with which he's more familiar. The comfortable fire in his belly ignited by a new cause to champion, something to fight for. He felt it most often in class, or at his desk, working on some new project. He wasn't aware it could happen while he was drunk, standing outside a rock venue in the snow. “So, what? They can’t bust you this late, anyway. The Man’s in bed.”

R just watches him, raising his cigarette to his mouth. He holds out both hands and frames Enjolras between them. "You look like an angel," he says, almost absently.

Enjolras' stomach jerks. It's that same feeling of riding an elevator, or taking the stairs and missing a step.

R doesn't take it back.

Enjolras collapses onto the bench, suddenly drowsy. They sit like that, in a semi-comfortable silence, for several minutes—or, possibly, several hours.

And then R says, "Hey, you wanna see it?"

Enjolras starts. "What?"

"The studio," R says, tossing his cigarette in the snow. "The radio station. C'mon."

"I've got to get to bed," Enjolras says, almost unconsciously.

"Nah," R says, standing and beckoning. "C'mon. Semester's over, let's go."

Enjolras wonders, for a moment, how he'd gotten to this precise spot. How he'd allowed himself to leave his friends' house, call a stranger and practically beg for a night out, and proceed to get dizzyingly drunk.

 _Well_ , he thinks. _It's not as if the night can get any wilder._

He stands and follows R.

~

In theory, Enjolras knows how to pick locks. He learned—ironically—at bible camp. After graduating high school, his mother had convinced him that he should work at the camp she'd sent him to every summer of his childhood, conveniently called "Catholic Youth Camp."

He'd found, unbenounced to his mother, that teenagers became youth counselors for the fun of being relatively unsupervised in the woods all summer—not, necessarily, out of overwhelming piety.

Which was how his summer at Catholic Youth Camp turned out to be the first time he'd kissed a girl, smoked a cigarette, and gotten drunk. It was also where he learned how to pick a lock, so he and his friends could steal wine from the Tabernacle.

“It’s fine,” David, ring-leader of their little group of counselors had said, “Father hasn’t blessed it yet.”

So, Enjolras knew how to pick locks. Or...he thought he did. Now, faced with the doorknob of the radio station, everything he learned from camp seems like a blur of miscellaneous prayers and knowledge about berries.

R's hot breath mists the back of his neck as Enjolras bends over, staring at the keyhole. “Do you know how to do this?”

“Um, I mean, yeah.” Enjolras curses himself for drinking that last rum-and-coke. He didn't know why his drunk brain seemed so hell-bent on impressing R, a virtual stranger, but the feeling wasn't going away.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I can do it. You got...uh...a paper clip, or something?"

R stares at him. "Don't you have an entire office supply store in that coat of yours?"

"Oh, right." Enjolras reaches into his coat and, to his delight, pulls out a handful of rubber bands, paper clips, and a pen cap.

"Jesus," R huffs, laughter in his voice. "I was kidding."

Enjolras undoes the clip, twisting it madly out of its rigid swirl. He bends it at what he hopes is the right angle and then fits it into the keyhole, waiting for an answering click.

Nothing happens.

"Ya know," R says. "Sometimes they're idiots and they leave it open. How about we just…"

R leans over him and twists the handle. The door swings open, revealing darkness.

"Huh," R says. "Would ya look at that."

Enjolras steps into the studio slowly. It's dark, with dry air. He can feel the walls around him, even though he can't see them.

Behind him, R turns on the main lights. Enjolras flinches.

“Sorry! Lemme just…” R shuts the lights off again, then bends over and picks something up from the floor. A string of multicolored holiday lights—the kind people hang outside their houses in winter—illuminates the tiny room from above. They're stuck to the ceiling with yellowing tape.

Suddenly, the cold, small space feels warm and welcoming. Maybe it's the rum in his veins, but Enjolras feels himself smiling in the semi-dark.

On the far wall is a board with sliding bars—volume, Enjolras assumes—and the jumping lights above them. There are four microphones, two speakers, two turntables, and stools and chairs scattered everywhere.

R comfortably grabs a stool and sits in front one of the turntables. Enjolras follows his lead, sitting on a chair with a ripped seat-cover. “Is anything playing right now?”

R shakes his head. “Nah. Radio silence, as they say. Nobody’s listening this late."

“Well, then why not play something?” Enjolras asks, walking over the wall of shelves. The shelves are full of records, all alphabetized. “You said it yourself—no one's listening. Why not play something?” With a sudden bold, alcohol-assisted stroke of inspiration, he blurts: “For me. Play me your favorite song.”

“My favorite song?” R repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck, that’s a big ask.”

"You don't have to. I mean, if you don't want to."

R looks at him, serious. "I'll do it, alright? Just give me a sec."

He stands and crosses to the wall of records and chews his lip. Enjolras finds himself staring in the near-darkness. Eventually—and that's a long eventually—he pulls a white record sleeve off the shelf.

“Okay, so, you know the Beatles?”

“I’m not a hermit, R."

R smiles a little. Enjolras doesn't know if it's because he thinks he is a hermit, or because it's the first time he's used R's name (well, stage-name).

“Okay, right. So, they released an album last year and the last track on side one is so fucking good.” He takes a black record out of the sleeve and crosses to a turntable. Carefully, he sets the needle on the vinyl. The song before it fades out and R flicks a few switches on the table.

ON AIR, says a glowing red sign, and the song begins.

_She’s not a girl who misses much…_

R gets a funny look on his face when the song starts. It’s dreamy, almost. He begins to mouth the words, gesturing with the lyrics. “I need a fix, cause I’m going down…” he sings softly.

Enjolras comes closer to R, sitting on the chair beside him so he can hear the quiet music. “What’s it about?”

"Sex." R's grin, so close to Enjolras' face, is almost—almost—bashful. "We’re not allowed to play this one. It’s about John Lennon’s wife. She’s the one John calls 'Mother Superior.'”

_When I hold you in my arms, and I feel my finger on your trigger..._

Enjolras feels the heat on his cheeks too late—he's already blushing, and he's mortified, and he doesn't know why. The missed-a-step-on-the-stairs feeling returns, and this time it's jumping in his throat.

His gaze drops to R’s lips where he’s mouthing the lyrics. His breath is warm. His head feels foggy and nice, like warm steam rising from a cup of coffee.

The song begins to fade away. R’s eyes flutter shut. Enjolras can almost count his long, dark eyelashes.

Why can he count R's eyelashes? Where is he? What is he doing here, in this dark room, with someone he barely knows and isn't sure he even likes?

He's drunk.

R leans closer, his breath, ghosting over the side of Enjolras' mouth—and then there's a bang, and the room is flooded with light.


	3. Chapter 3

"...deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen," Enjolras chants, lips moving in thoughtless recitation as he stands between his mother and his father in the third pew from the front.

Ever since he could remember, he'd attended Mass. Even now, in college, he took the bus from his apartment to worship with his parents. When he lived at home, Enjolras had been as devoted as his parents had been, leading Youth Worship and organizing mission trips, but his role had diminished since he'd started college. Without the structure of his parents' home, his private prayers and confessions had grown few and far between, and the guilt gnawed at him each Sunday.

Today, the sacrament leaves a particularly bitter taste in his mouth. 

“If we say, 'we have fellowship with him,' while we continue to walk in darkness, we cannot act in truth.' What does this mean?" Father Larson offers the rhetorical question to his congregation. "It means this: that even those who sit in church, those who take part in the Holy Sacrament, are capable of sin. We, those of us here, _today_ , are capable of sin.”

To Enjolras' left, his mother hums in agreement. His father, as always, sits as still and silent as stone.

Father Larson continues: "God sees the lamb that has strayed from the flock. God is always watching. He always knows when we are in the darkness, and He will always be there, beside you—a light to follow in the darkness."

Enjolras wonders, briefly, if his tie is tied too tight. The lump of uneasiness in his throat suddenly seems to restrict his windpipe. It had been growing for two days, ever since that Friday night, in the University's radio studio. Enjolras didn't want to face his thoughts, and so he allowed to lump to grow, only encouraged by his refusal to acknowledge what he might've done—what he would've done—had the janitor not opened the door to the studio on his regular rounds.

Would he have managed the strength to pull away, before...well, before his temptation got the better of him? Or would he have...?

Enjolras shakes his head, hoping to rid himself of the thought—to rid himself of the feeling of warmth that gathered in his chest and his belly when he remembered the points of stubble on R's face, so close to his own in the darkness...

"Enj," his mother whispers, gently nudging him with her elbow. "Are you alright, sweetheart? You look pale."

"Fine, Mom, thanks," Enjolras says, managing a smile.

On top of his discomfort and the ballooning need to address the lump in his throat, he hadn't managed to tell his parents that he'd failed his chemistry course. His mother is sweet, and his father is quiet, but Enjolras has never failed a class before. His entire life has been made up nothing but successes—he can't imagine how his parents react to this failure.

~

 

 

 

After church, Enjolras' father stays for Bible Study. He gruffly asks how his son is doing—as always, Enjolras says he's doing well—and then stiffly pats him on the back. His mother kisses his father briefly on the cheek; then turns to walk Enjolras to his bus stop. Outside, the wind is strong and cuts against their skin.

“Button your coat, sweetheart," Enjolras' mother suggests as they walk gingerly down the icy sidewalk. Now outside the quiet, sacred space of the church, her questions fall like a cascade. “How were your final exams? What will you do in January? Oh, and how is Katherine?"

Katherine. Enjolras berates himself for forgetting; he'd mentioned Katherine to his parents only once, but they'd taken to her like moths to a flame. He and Katherine had gone out only once, to the movies. He'd accompanied her home, and she'd kissed him goodnight, but that had been the end of it.

Fantastic. Yet another thing to add to the growing lump in his throat.

"I'm not sure. I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks."

"Ah," Enjolras' mother says, tone and face unreadable. "That's too bad."

They arrive at the bus stop. In a display of affection that Enjolras craves, she hugs him tightly. “Don’t work too hard. I love you, sweetheart."

"I won't, Mom. I love you, too."

~

“Why do we always have to practice at Hank’s place?” James, pulling a face, tunes his Les Paul. "Smells like weed down here."

It's true. Hank Bryant's uncle's basement doubles as The Twin Shitties' current practice studio. It smells unmistakably of weed, smoke, cat hair, and occasionally, cat pee.

Hank gives James a sugar-sweet smile beneath his mop of dirty-blonde hair. “You wanna drag my kit to your place?”

James purses his lips, scowling.

“Didn’t think so," Hank responds, playing a soft ba-dum-tss. Carl reaches over and rubs Hank's head, not unlike a gesture afforded to a beloved pet.

“Wow,” Carl appraises. “Did you shower? You’re not dripping with grease.”

Hank smacks Carl's hand away. “You bet your ass I did! I have a date tonight, remember?”

R, having spent the last twenty minutes lying on the couch, speaks up. “Oh, yeah, bud? You gonna bring her back to chez-Hank?”

James, Hank, and Carl turn to look at him.

"Forget you were there, R," Carl says.

R just shrugs. His guitar, lovingly named Molly, lies across his lap.

"Why can't I bring her here?" Hank asks defensively.

"You joking?" James rolls his eyes.

“He better be," Carl says. "Unless he doesn't wanna get any."

R laughs, sitting up and curling around his guitar. “Just play the drummer card."

“And then I’ll play her drums!” Hank plays a triumphant fill.

"Bring her backstage, like I did with Christine," James suggests, not without pride.

“Man," Carl reflects. "People will do some weird shit for the promise of getting to hang out backstage. I mean, we don’t even have to be good," he says, smirking.

There was no doubt in R's mind that his bandmate had abused his privilege. Then, again, hadn't they all?

“Anyone can get backstage, anyway,” R says, plucking at the low E string and tuning it until it didn’t sound like death. It was true; if Enjolras, the poster-child for listeners of classical music, could get in, anyone could.

R's train of thought grinds to a halt at the thought of the blond, blue-eyed law student. He falls back onto the couch, cradling his guitar like a strange adaptation of the Madonna and child. It's been like this ever since that night in the radio studio—his mind freezes with a single mention of Enjolras.

It isn't like him. He isn't the kind to get hooked so quickly; hell, he isn't the kind to get hooked at all, truth be told.

James' face hovers above his own, upside-down, but clearly frowning. "What is wrong with you today, R?"

"Nothing," R says, siting up. "Let's practice."

"Yes, thank you," James huffs. “Can we do 'Communist Supermarx'? It sounded like shit at the Depot.” His gaze rests accusingly on Carl, who raises his hands in defense.

“I was hungover!"

"As if that’s an excuse to not play your instrument for the entire song!"

"It wasn't the entire song," Carl says, but it's a pathetic protest.

“You have to stop drinking with R. You can’t keep up,” Hank says, laughing.

R, heavyweight champion of The Twin Shitties, finally stands and plugs Molly into the amp. “What can I say? I’m kind of a legend. Anyway, that's in the past. I wrote a new song yesterday.”

“Fucking _finally_.” Hank tosses both drumsticks in the air and catches one of them.

R plays the song for them, strumming mellow chords to go with the relatively raw and simple lyrics.

_Hey, blue eyes_  
_You got me sinkin’..._

When R finishes, Hank nods appraisingly. “That’s gotta be some bitchin’ chick.”

“Bitchin’ is right," R says absently, picking at the strings. It's cathartic, playing that song. Of course, Enjolras would never hear it. But at least he’d said his piece.

"Ah," Carl says, looking at R with sympathy. "This is where the funk's comin' from, huh?"

“What’s your bag?” R says. “There’s no funk.”

"Uh-huh. Sure," says Hank, giving Carl a smirk.

"Hank?" Hank's Uncle Norm, bald and stern-faced, looks down from the stairs. "Help me with somethin', would ya?"

Hank sets down his sticks and sighs, standing. "Yeah, sure. You guys go on without me."

"Mark my words," Carl says darkly, "One day, Hank'll be bald, just like Old Norm."

"Hank wouldn't be Hank without his hair," R says.

As soon as Hank disappears up the stairs, James goes, "Communist Supermarx."

"I am so goddamn sick of that song," Carl groans. "Can't we do...uh, what was that one called, R?"

R smirks. "Bitch Boys Take Hollywood?”

"We are not calling it that," James says, turning to point a finger at Carl. "No fuckin' way."

From the stairs, a new voice says: “I dunno, it's pretty catchy."

R exclaims, “Eponine!”

Eponine, a short girl with dark, rat’s nest-hair and thick eyebrows, grins widely as she falls into R's tight hug. He ruffles her hair, then gestures to a spot on the cat pee-stained couch. “We have to give the fans what they want, Jimmy.”

“Norm let me in.” Eponine goes to sit, shooting the band a tired smile. She'd gone to high school with Carl and James, and had been following their band since its inception. She was practically an honorary member. “I saw the The Depot show. Couldn't stay long after, but it was great.”

“Glad you liked it,” says R as he returns to his spot between Carl and James. “Let’s do Bitch Boys Take Hollywood, or whatever the fuck we're gonna call it.”

They practice for an hour or so. Hank returns a couple songs in and for once, he actually pays attention during rehearsal. James irritates them until they practice Communist Supermarx. Carl nails the bass line and then aggressively flips James the bird.

“Alright, this practice has already lasted twice the length of my attention span.” R says, setting his guitar next to Eponine on the couch. “I’m dead tired.”

“And I want a drink,” Hank says, dropping his drumsticks.

Carl's eyes go wide. "You, Hank? You never drink!"

"I drink sometimes," Hank defends.

“Hell, yeah!” James pumps his fist in the air. "Let's get Hank drunk!"

R gestures to James. "Not you. You're driver."

"Aw, fuck," James says. "Just 'cuz I'm the only one with a car..."

Eponine, lounging on the couch, pipes up. “Have y’all seen the new Bond movie yet?”

“War Devils just came out,” Carl suggests. “It’s about World War 2 or some shit?"

Hank shakes his head. “Nah, man. I like Eponine's idea. Let's do Bond."

They all mutter some sort of agreement and decide to go to a showing in an hour or so.

“If you guys want to pre-party, I’ve got some vodka back at my place,” says R, grinning.

James is the only one with a car, so they all pile into his 1953 Studebaker and drive to R’s place. It’s a small apartment in Dinkytown. The agreement with the landlord: no complaints = no raise in the rent. There's a lot to complain about, too. Sometimes the radiator gets way too hot and there’s almost no ventilation in the bathroom. Half the storage is only accessible when standing on a chair. He’s had a couple minor robberies. It’s not a great place to live, but it’s cheap and he can’t afford anything else.

They all find somewhere to sit in his tiny living room and then R goes to get vessels for the vodka. A cup, a few mugs, and an empty coke bottle will do just fine, he thinks.

R takes a shot from the coke bottle and then lays on the ground, staring at his ceiling.

Eponine, who had been given the cup threw back a shot and then followed suit. “Hey, you okay?” She turned onto her side and looked at him, concerned.

He puts his hands behind his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You seem quiet.”

“Just tired."

Eponine stares at him for a beat—perhaps a beat too long—and then sits up, taking another shot.

R closes his eyes again, and behind his eyelids appears the image of Enjolras glowing under the tiny studio lights, lips parted, unsure. They were moments away from kissing—he knew it—and then they’d been interrupted. He sighs, still frustrated after two days.

Up on the couch, the rest of the band is drinking and talking about a particularly terrible band that had opened for them a month ago.

“They’re really nice guys...” he hears James say. “But honestly, unplug their amps.”

There's a loud noise of agreement. The band's volume is correlated with the amount of vodka they consume; luckily, R's neighbors never complain—a benefit of living in a building filled with college students. Soon the vodka is gone, so they move on to his rum. R's liquor cabinet is well-stocked. His drinking isn’t a problem, he tells himself, because it hasn’t affected his life. He hasn’t become the guy who goes onstage with a full bottle of wine yet.

“Alright, movie time!” Carl, suddenly emboldened by a couple shots of rum, drapes an arm around Hank and ruffles his hair. Suddenly, his face grows serious. “Hey, man, didn't you have a date tonight?”

Hank waves a hand, shrugging, and downs another shot of vodka. “I called her and cancelled.” 

They pile into James' car again, this time a bit more chummy. Eponine finds R’s lap to be the most comfortable spot in the car and he’s too distracted to argue.

As they buy tickets, the man at the front window eyes them suspiciously. They’d had R do all the talking because he could actually hold his liquor and didn’t start giggling like Eponine at the sight of normal things. 

They go to the back row. Eponine stands on her chair and happily chatted with the film operator before he politely excuses himself and said he had to do his job. R sat between Hank and Eponine. Eponine is clearly enjoying the movie, while Hank slouches in his seat and watches, biting his nails. R, as he always does, gets too caught up in the movie and barely notices anything else until the film had ended.

When the lights went on, his immediate words are, “Holy _shit_.”

Carl is just as excited, and immediately launches into what R knew was going to be a far-fetched theory. It was soon revealed that Carl had packed a small bottle of vodka in his pocket, and James had drunk the whole thing. At R's urging, they abandoned James' car in favor of the long, chilly walk home, planning to pick the car up in the morning.

They stopped at an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk sign to turn on. The excitement had eased up a little.

R looked at Hank, who had been walking beside him, and put an arm around his shoulders. “What’d ya think?”

Hank starts, as if he'd only just noticed where he was. "Uh, yeah...it was good."

R stares. "You good, man?"

Hank sniffs. It's a noise R has never heard from Hank. Then, he says, “Grantaire."

R has never heard Hank use his full name before. He stops, knowing something is wrong. Gradually, the people in front of him stop too.

Hank says it so softly that R almost wonders if he'd heard him wrong: “I'm going over.”

“What?” R's word gets caught in his throat.

“My number got called,” Hank explains, almost smoothly, now. "That's what he wanted me for. My uncle. I'm going to Vietnam."

"Oh, my god," says Carl, or maybe it's James, but R doesn't know because he's pulling Hank into a tight hug. His friend is crying softly; R can tell he's trying to hold back, and it makes him irrationally angry. He looks up from Hank's shoulder. His friends' faces stare back at him, blank.

So far, it had seemed like R was in a bubble. The war hadn’t touched him or his friends. They’d all escaped the draft, but Hank wasn’t in school. There had been nothing keeping him from being randomly selected.

As his friends surround him, R can't help but think it, the stupid, naive question: Why did it have to be Hank?

 


	4. You Got Me Sinkin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impulse brings him to a house show, and an impulse makes him leave.

The poster has been taunting him. No matter where he goes, that little 8.5 by 11 poster is on some corkboard, pillar, or bus stop. It’s hand drawn, with bold lettering advertising a rock show sponsored by the University’s radio station. Among the list of bands, of course, is  _ The Twin Shitties.  _

 

As much as he tries, Enjolras is unable to forget R. Whenever he thinks of him, the strange lurch returns to his stomach. 

 

Today, as he walks by the library’s bulletin board, something possesses him to grab a tab off the bottom with the time and address. 

 

He probably won’t go. He probably doesn’t have time.

 

Enjolras sighs, his breath punching the air with a white, cold cloud. 

 

Who is he kidding? He has nothing to do for at least a week. There’s nothing stopping him from spending one more night in a smoky club. 

 

If he goes, he thinks suddenly, maybe he’ll be able to finally get R off his mind. 

 

He’s not  _ that _ cool, Enjolras thinks. He’s just a performer who pulls stunts for attention. That night in the studio was a fluke, he’s been telling himself. They were both drunk. R is not extraordinary.

 

With a sense of certainty, he puts the slip of paper in his pocket. 

 

“He’s not that great,” he mutters aloud to himself. 

 

There’d be no harm in going. He’d stand in the back, see the show, realize that R was genuinely just a human being, and then leave with a clear conscious. 

 

  
  


Two days later, Enjolras frets in front of a full length mirror. He doesn’t want to wear a damn cardigan, but recently he’s discovered that his closet is mostly made up of sweaters, plain trousers and collared shirts. 

 

However, he has one pair of red plaid pants and a black turtleneck. His aunt, who thought herself exceptionally interesting, had gifted him this outfit last Christmas. He’s worn it once, but he’d promptly removed it after a man stared at him. 

 

But he didn’t want to stick out tonight, and he knew that his normal wardrobe would stick out like a sore thumb. So, he dons the alternative outfit and leaves the apartment before he can convince otherwise. 

 

The venue, he realizes, is a house. Instead of smoking outside the doors of a club with poor lighting, punks are huddled together on the front porch of a small green bungalow. He passes amongst them with a ducked head and finds a place to stand on the outskirts of the living room where he won’t be noticed. 

 

A band is already playing. The lead singer, a scrawny brunette with a bowl cut and an acoustic guitar, sings into the microphone with the confidence of a stray cat. He can’t really hear the details of the music, but he gathers from the crowd around him that it’s not good—even in this world. 

 

A few other bands play, and he’s beginning to wonder if he should just abandon ship all together because he’s going deaf, when the emcee announces, “Up next,  _ The Twin Shitties _ !” 

 

So, Enjolras stays put and tries harder to blend into the wall. 

 

The bassist and rhythm guitarist enter. Then, excitedly trailing after them, is the drummer. He’s clearly quite young—high school maybe—with long blonde hair. Enjolras doesn’t remember much about the rest of the band, but he’s pretty sure the drummer is new. 

 

Entering last, as Enjolras assumes he often does, is R. 

 

The lead singer plugs his pink guitar into the amplifier and then walks up to the microphone. “Hey, how are y’all doing tonight?” He asks. 

 

He’s answered with various screams, whistles and yells. 

 

“Glad to hear it.” 

 

He turns to the rest of the band and counts off, tapping his foot. 

 

Similar to the time before, the noise attacks the crowd aggressively. R turns towards the audience again and puts his lips against the microphone. 

 

_ I don’t have the time to be eaten alive _

_ I don’t have the guts to attack the hive _

_ I don’t have the money to give a shit _

_ What do you want from me? _

_ What do you want? _

 

It’s bitter and angry. The next songs are ones he remembers from the first show. But the fourth song—nothing prepares him for the fourth song.

 

R leans into the microphone. 

 

“I’m going to give my band a break for a few minutes and play a song I wrote this week. I’m not sure what do with it yet, but…” He trails off and looks down at his guitar. “See what you think.” 

 

The room goes silent. The band quietly leaves the stage.

 

He can hear people shifting their weight, but no one says a word as R begins to play a soft melody on his electric guitar. It echos in the quiet.

 

_ We need a revolution in this four star town, _

_ Gotta stop the institution that’s bringing my baby down _

 

His voice is nice. It’s rough from years of venues like these, but it has a tender quality to it without a band to back him. 

 

_ Hey blue eyes,  _

_ You got me sinkin’  _

_ My pretty baby’s got me thinkin’ _

_ Heaven or hell, I don’t care _

_ As long as I’ve got my blondie there _

 

_ Blondie. _ Enjolras’ stomach drops. 

 

He doesn’t really hear the rest of the song. How could he possibly focus now? But he  _ sees _ the rest. He sees the way R softly leans into the mic with his eyes closed. Enjolras’ gaze drifts down to R’s hands. They move gracefully across the neck of the instrument. It’s almost like a dance, he thinks. 

 

The song ends. He backs away from the microphone as the crowd applauds, whooping and hollering. A small smile crosses his lips and his face flushes bright red. 

 

“Alright, we’ve got time for one more song.” 

 

But Enjolras doesn’t stay. He pushes through the crowd, determined to find a bedroom, a closet, a bathroom—anywhere he can calm down. 

 

He finds a bathroom first. With shaking hands he locks the door.

 

The ground vibrates with the sound of the amps. He sits against the door and pulls his knees up to his chest, which feels tight and heavy. He can feel his pulse; he can almost feel his heartbeat drumming stubbornly in his chest. 

 

Coming here was an idiotic lapse in judgement, he thinks. Then again, whenever he’s around R, he seems to completely forget everything he’s ever known. Even being in the same room as R makes Enjolras feel strange and stupid, but it’s an not entirely bad feeling. 

 

That’s what scares him the most. 

 

He stays locked in the bathroom until he can breathe properly again. By then, the bass traveling through the floor has disappeared. 

 

Enjolras stands and looks himself in the eye through the mirror. His eyes are blue,  _ so _ blue. He’d never really payed attention to them. But now, he leans closer and examines his features. 

 

There’s a sharp banging on the door. 

 

_ “Hey! You can’t hog the bathroom!”  _

 

Enjolras abruptly opens the door and apologizes to the irritated woman standing on the other side. She scowls. 

 

Though the concert seems to be over, the house is still packed. He squeezes through the crowd like he wants to disappear. The house, still so full, has become a maze. He’d just gone through the kitchen, how did he end up here again? 

 

A voice behind him comments, “Hey, I dig your style.” 

 

He turns towards the voice. 

 

“Thank you. Hey do you know where—?” He stops. It’s R. 

 

R grins. “Blondie? What the hell are you doing in a place like this—wearing those?” He gestures to Enjolras’ pants. 

 

Words fail him. “I got lost,” he responds, weakly.

 

“Sure.” R says, nodding. “Of course. How long have you been here?”

 

Enjolras’ grasp on the concept of time is weak at the moment. 

 

“A couple hours, maybe?” 

 

It just as easily could have been six hours, or twenty minutes. Flustered, he runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. 

 

“Did you hear…?” R asks, gesturing vaguely. 

 

Enjolras nods. It’s all he can muster. 

 

R’s easy grin fades. “I didn’t see you,” he says quickly. “I didn’t think you’d—do you want to talk about it? We can go somewhere. What did you think about the—?” 

 

“Not here, please.” Enjolras interrupts.

 

R nods, suddenly serious. He takes the blonde boy’s hand—Enjolras’ stomach jolts—and navitages them through the house to a back door, which leads to a small porch. They sit on the cold steps.  

 

“So, you heard the whole set?” R asks quietly. 

 

“I didn’t hear the last one.”

 

Enjolras stares at the snow. He doesn’t want to look at the sweaty, disheveled musician beside him. 

 

They’re both silent.

 

Then, Enjolras comments, “I didn’t know you could sing. Actually sing, I mean.” 

 

R gives him a breathy chuckle. “I usually don’t. But people do crazy things when they have a muse.” 

 

The words sit between them for a long moment. Enjolras shivers. 

 

“You cold?” 

 

Before Enjolras can protest, the musician is shrugging off his denim jacket and draping it over his shoulders. R adjusts the collar precisely in the dim light of the moon, perhaps not realizing how close the action has brought him to Enjolras. 

 

The jacket is warm and smells smoky. 

 

The words leave his mouth before he can really think about them. “Why did you write it?” 

 

“It practically wrote itself.” 

 

“ _ Why _ did you write it?” Enjolras asks again. 

 

The guitarist shrugs. “The only reason we know about the gods,” he murmurs, “is because someone wrote about them.” 

 

_ That’s not an answer, _ Enjolras thinks, frustrated. 

 

“I had to write you down to prove to myself that you existed.” Says the musician.

 

Then, R sighs and blushes. “Sorry, that was dumb—”

 

Enjolras shakes his head and leans forward. One of his hands finds R’s stubble-covered chin. He lifts it and looks into his eyes for one small, terrifying moment before kissing him. 

 

The kiss isn’t perfect. It’s clumsy and their lips don’t precisely match up. Their noses bump together. Enjolras’ lips are chapped.

 

The blonde pulls away an inch. Between them, their breath is loud. R stares at him with his lips gently parted and his blue eyes dark. 

 

A guilty nausea floods Enjolras. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have—Oh God.”  He stands up quickly, feeling sick.

 

He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows that he has to get out of here. 

 

Ignoring—or frankly, not hearing—R’s protests, he heads in the direction of a streetlight. Signs at the crossroads in the neighborhood mean nothing to him because he doesn’t know St. Paul well. 

 

What the hell had he just done?

 

He has no excuse this time. There’s no drunkenness to blame for his actions. It’s just him and his stupid impulses.

 

Enjolras stands, close to tears, beneath a streetlamp. 

 

He becomes acutely aware of the denim jacket draped around his shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since we wrote anything for this! Now that summer's here, we might do a little more. We'll see.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap on Chapter One! We're super proud of how this is developing...and we have plans ;) If you liked it, please bless us with a Kudos and/or comment! You are the fuel to our fire.


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